


Dynamic Equilibrium

by LogosMinusPity



Category: overwatch
Genre: F/F, Hair-pulling, Smut, Strap-Ons, Teasing, mercymaker, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: Amélie repays Angela for the favor of taking care of the dishes after dinner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (taking place in my internal headcanon world post Give and Inch, Run a Mile...not that there's really much plot to this smut)

Angela is elbows deep in soap suds and bubbles, pointedly focusing on the small mountain of dirty dishes that sit by the sink in front of her. She’s insisted on cleaning up after dinner tonight, finally getting Amélie to concede. It’s the least Angela can do back, not simply for the dinner Amélie prepared, but for the entire meal Angela was allowed to spend ranting about the finer points of university grant funding politics. Even now the thought of needless quibbling pulls her temples tight with the threat of a headache.

She’s not even halfway through the dishes when she hears Amélie’s bare feet pad back onto the kitchen tiles again.

“Amélie, I told you, I’ve got the dishes tonight.”

“And isn’t that tremendously kind of you?”

There’s _something_ about Amélie’s voice that hints at an entirely different sort of exchange between them, but Angela only has a second to ponder it before Amélie comes right up behind her, pressing flush against her back. It’s a normally sweet gesture in and of itself, but it turns into something very different when Angela registers the insistent and unmistakable press of _that_ particular toy against her backside.

Angela sucks in a breath, all thoughts of work and stress and dirty dishes running from her mind as the heat roars into life in her blood, and pools just there between her legs.

“ _Ame_ \--”

Cool fingers are curling around the back of her neck before she can even fully turn her head, and Angela goes completely and immediately still, abandoning the effort before it’s even really begun. For a long moment, all she hears is the thudding of her rapidly rising heart rate in her own ears, the sound of her breath now harsh and shallow against her dry throat. Her skin practically hums with sudden and pent up energy, and Angela is waiting, waiting, her every sense focused on Amélie. 

“The dishes?”

Amélie asks the question oh so casually, as if it were any other evening, never mind that she’s likely forgone all of her clothes in favor of a few straps of leather that now hug her hips and pelvis. That particular train of thought makes the heat in Angela’s gut jump pointedly, makes.

But that’s not the game Amélie is offering. That much is certain without even being spoken.

For a second, Angela’s hand trembles the slightest bit, and water drips from the sponge. She sets aside the now clean plate in her hand, and inhales sharply. Then she reaches for another one dish.

“Good girl,” comes the appreciative whisper against her ear, and Angela shivers despite the hot water still running in the sink.

She can feel the press of Amélie’s hard nipples now rubbing against her back, and she has to swallow thickly. Her eyes stare forward and down at the soapy sponge that hovers over the waiting bowl.

Oh yes. All clothes have almost certainly been cast aside. It makes her want to turn around even more.

Almost as if she can read minds, Amélie’s hand grips a fraction tighter against Angela’s neck.

“Spread your legs a bit wider for me.” Amélie’s voice is low. Her other hand is resting on Angela’s hip, and the way she speaks makes it less of a suggestion and more of a command.

Angela swallows a second time, and then slowly slides her feet into a broader stance. She shivers when Amélie’s hands move (only moving, of course, once Angela’s actually begun scraping the sponge against the soiled bowl), when her fingers scrape errantly against the outside of Angela’s legs as she pushes up the hem of the skirt Angela still wears from work. Up, up, up, until the material bunches up practically at her waist.

She can’t help but make a sound when the toy slides finally between her legs. Her underwear are still on, not that it seems to concern Amélie.

The ridges of the strapon grind right up against Angela’s clit, and she moans when Amélie starts to rock slowly. Back and forth. Then back again. It’s a tortuous pattern, deliberate in how it teases and promises, but too slow to give any of the actual relief that Angela now burns for.

Angela doesn’t even realize that she’s squeezed her eyes shut until they snap back open. Amélie’s stopped, and Angela tries to push her own hips back into the rhythm, put Amélie has her pinned sharply against the sink with no room to move.

“The dishes,” reminds Amélie, chiding just the slightest bit.

Only when Angela shakily resumes her scrubbing does that _awful_ (wonderful) rocking between her legs resume, too.

_Clean. Just finish the cleaning. Just finishing cleaning and—_

While one of Amélie’s hands braces on the counter, the other undoes the buttons of Angela’s shirt, makes quick work of pushing her bra out of the way and toying with her sensitive nipples. And all the while, the motion between Angela’s legs never stops, never speeds up. It’s all Angela can think about, damn the dishes.

“Fuck,” she gasps out. “Amélie, _please_ —”

A hand snakes into her hair and jerks hard before she can even think.

“Language, Dr. Ziegler.”

Amélie’s voice is right against her ear now, sharp and cold, and leaving no doubt about just what sort of consequences there might be. A different day, a different night, and Angela might have her own fun in testing that particular boundary, but sheer need perishes the thought of doing anything _but_ whatever will get her relief now.

She does exactly as she as expected.

By the time her hands claw for the last dish in the sink, Angela can barely see straight. Fine tremors run from the crown of her head right down to her toes, and her fingers shake as she jerkily washes the plate to some semblance of cleanliness.

She nearly slams the innocent dish into the drying rack, her chest heaving as she blinks once, twice, unable to focus her vision on anything.

No need to state the obvious, though.

As soon as the plate slides from her fingers, Amélie goes still against her, and it’s almost worse than the incessant, slow rocking that Angela’s endured up until now.

Amélie’s hand drifts down from her disheveled front, slides under her bunched up skirt and under even her underwear this time. With two fingers she cups and squeezes Angela’s clit, holding impossibly still _when all Angela needs is for her to move._

_Move._

Angela rocks and sucks in a gasp, horribly overstimulated, but Amélie is still yet to take pity.

She withdraws her long, elegant fingers and Angela doesn’t even have to see them to know how they glisten. Still, Amélie holds her fingers up for both of them to see, and her lips are right back chasing the curve of Angela’s ear as she speaks.

“Cleaned up one mess...only to make another.”  

God, but Angela can’t take more of this. She’s certain she won’t survive more.

Amélie’s lips return to her ear.

“But...you have been good. Don’t you think so?”

It takes Angela too long to realize she’s expected to actually respond. She nods her head as best as she can manage, and ignores the stutter that passes her lips.

“Y-yes.”

She can _feel_ the curve of Amélie’s lips as she smiles.

“I think so, too.”

There’s only time enough to suck in a breath filled with equal parts anxiety and desire, and then Amélie is half leading her and half shoving her toward the dining table.

Angela just barely catches a glimpse of Amélie, predictably naked but for the leather harness and the strapon. Then she’s pushed over the edge of the table, hard grains of wood pressing one cheek flat as she’s forced to turn her head sideways or risk quashing her nose into the surface of the furniture. Amélie’s palm lands on the small of Angela’s back, between her two shoulder blades. Her fingernails dig in through the thin shirt, and there’s enough force to indicate that she is meant to stay there. And just right there.

Not that Angela is intending on doing anything but.

Still, her skin jumps and she squirms despite herself when Amélie’s spare hand cups her bare ass, finally drags down her underwear. She can feel the tip of the toy hovering at the entrance to her sex. Hovering, waiting, practically _daring_ her to do something. But Angela knows without it even being said that if she tries to do something, to move her hips further back into Amélie’s, Amélie will just as quickly step back and deny her even that.

Angela can feel the wetness that now coats her inner thighs, and it only grows more pronounced when Amélie slides the toy back and forth just the slightest bit.

God, but hasn’t she been teased enough already?

“Amélie…” Angela squeezes her eyes shut, trying and failing to repress the fully-body shudder of desire that runs through her. It’s too much, too much to ask of her to…

Amélie stops, though, going pensively still, and Angela can feel the moment that she relents.

“As you wish, Angela,” and her voice is rich with warmth and laughter alike.

Then Amélie pushes the toy in. Angela jerks forward, scrabbling at the table for a moment in relief, in so, so much relief that she could nearly sob. Amélie wastes no time now, and her hips find an easy and sharp rhythm, pushing in and out, in and out, repeating and rapidly increasing in pace until Angela is eagerly pushing her hips back into it.

She realizes that at some point Amélie has stopped moving, that her hand has long since left Angela’s back to grip the edge of the table instead. It’s only Angela moving herself now, fucking herself on the strapon that happens to be attached to Amélie.

“That’s it,” Amélie encourages in a heated whisper. Her eyes gleam as she watches. “Take it. Fuck yourself. Fuck yourself until you come, but know that _I’m_ the one giving you that pleasure.”

God, but she’s so close.

“Don’t stop now. Keep moving if you want to come.”

Angela doesn’t stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Also...I wanted to note that I really wanted to name this Fugacity or some other thermo term, and the recalled that maaaaybe that might be a bit too esoteric WHOOPS.


End file.
